Midnight Caller (13 page)

The man went around the corner, disappearing behind a crumbling stone wall nearly obscured by primrose jasmine. Trevor followed his path into a gated courtyard.

He turned around once, twice. There was no other way out.

Where the hell had he gone?

The air in the courtyard felt heated and sluggish. Trevor's hair was damp with perspiration, and the pain in his side from the previous evening seemed to radiate through his body. Overhead, the tops of the courtyard's banana trees ruffled in the breeze brought in by the river.

Trevor was unaware as to exactly when he'd pulled his
gun, but he whirled when he heard someone approach and pointed the weapon. Brian took a step back, raising his hands in front of him.

“Whoa! Take it easy, Trev! What's going on?”

He lowered the gun and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his forehead. “You saw him.”

Brian's face was flushed as he attempted to catch his breath. “I ran after you all the way from the park. I didn't see anyone.”

“He came in here!”

Concern filled Brian's eyes. “Trevor, there's no one here.”

Trevor looked around again, refusing to believe it had only been his imagination.

T
he patio at Jezzabel's was cool, thanks to overhanging shade trees and several outdoor fans. Rain followed the maître d' to a table next to a display of ferns and potted ivy, then took a seat in the cushioned rattan chair he pulled out for her.

“Will you be dining alone this afternoon, ma'am?” he inquired.

“Someone's joining me.” She unfolded the cloth napkin and placed it on her lap. “I left his name with the hostess.”

The maître d' nodded. “I'll direct him this way as soon as he arrives.”

Alex had called Rain the morning after Brian's art showing, and they'd agreed to meet that Tuesday for lunch at the popular restaurant on Magazine Street. Acquainted with Alex's tendency to run late, she settled into the comfortable chair and ordered an iced tea with mint while she waited. But it didn't take long for her thoughts to travel to the previous evening and the kiss she'd shared with Trevor Rivette.

She was thirty-two years old and not once in her life did Rain recall making the first move. Not until last night. Still, she recalled Trevor's reaction. His lips had been warm and firm as they explored hers. When he'd finally pulled away,
she was certain it was sexual attraction that had darkened his eyes to a stunning midnight blue.

You're part of this investigation, Rain.
His words echoed in her memory. Lost in reflection, she ran her fingers through the condensation on her water glass. “Dr. Sommers?”

Rain looked up at the man standing next to her table. Although Dr. Christian Carteris had never attended a counseling session with his son, she recognized him from the portrait of the board of directors in the lobby of All Saints Hospital, as well as the photos that appeared regularly in the society column of the
Times-Picayune.
Dr. Carteris appeared to be in his early to mid-forties and, like Oliver, he was tall and dark-haired. His steel-framed spectacles glinted in the sunlight.

“Dr. Carteris.” Rain offered her hand in greeting. “So nice to finally meet you in person.”

“I hope I'm not disturbing you. I just finished lunch and saw you being seated. Could I have a word? It's about my son.”

“I'm sure you understand I can't discuss what's said in therapy—”

The surgeon patted the air as if to ward off her concern. “I appreciate the need for confidentiality, and I'd never expect you to divulge anything Oliver might have told you during his sessions. The truth is, there are some things I feel compelled to share with you. It might be pertinent to his treatment.”

His eyes fell to the unoccupied chair. “May I? At least until your guest arrives?”

“I think that would be all right.”

Pinching up the knees of his tailored suit pants, he sat across from her. “I'll get right to the point. Oliver's conduct at home has become increasingly erratic. So much so that I searched his room last night after he'd gone out.”

He adjusted his eyeglasses, his expression grave. “I found
marijuana, as well as a white powder the hospital's pharmacist informs me is crystal methamphetamine. I'm particularly concerned about the latter.”

He had good reason to be worried. Rain recalled Oliver's behavior during his last therapy session—the crystal meth would explain his paranoia and hostility.

“Have you talked to Oliver about what you found?”

“I tried to this morning, but he shoved me against the wall and stormed out. He was furious I'd gone through his things.” He hesitated briefly, appearing sheepish. “I was actually a bit fearful of him. My own son.”

There was a break in conversation as the iced tea Rain ordered arrived. Once the waiter retreated, the surgeon continued. “I worry Oliver's problems are my fault. I tried to compensate for the loss of his mother at such a young age, and I realize now I overindulged him. I looked the other way when the behavioral problems started.”

Rain was privy to Oliver's records. Although Dr. Carteris was American, Oliver's mother was European. She'd been killed in a car accident in a Pacific Rim country where the surgeon was conducting private research. Oliver had been nine years old.

“As you know, I returned to the States two years ago to accept the position of chief of cardiac medicine. My hope was for Oliver to complete his education here.”

Rain felt a tug of sympathy. Christian Carteris was at the top of his field. She could imagine the high expectations he must have had for his son.

“Oliver's very intelligent.” A note of pride entered his voice. “Did you know he's fluent in three languages? He also has a gift for the violin. He was on a music scholarship at Loyola before he was expelled.”

Rain nodded solemnly. “Yes, I'm aware of that.”

“Now he works at a video store in Bywater, earning
minimum wage. Just enough to pay for his recreational drugs, apparently. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed.”

“You're a very successful man, Dr. Carteris. Perhaps Oliver feels an undue amount of pressure to achieve and he's rebelling against it?”

“I expect only what my son is capable of, nothing more.” He looked pensive and shook his head. “Regardless, I only wanted to let you know about the drugs, as well as the change in behavior. I thought it might be important.”

“It is,” Rain agreed. “I wish there was something I could say to alleviate your concern. But if his drug use is escalating, as the crystal meth suggests, there might be a need to consider in-patient rehabilitation. There are some excellent programs. I could make recommendations.”

“Oliver despises me already,” he replied sadly. “Can you imagine if I put him in a facility? But I'll do what I have to, of course.”

“It's a difficult decision, but Oliver might eventually thank you for caring enough to do what's best for him.”

The surgeon's gaze was direct. “I have to be honest with you, Dr. Sommers. You came highly recommended. I'm discouraged Oliver's therapy sessions haven't resulted in a better outcome.”

“Psychotherapy is a long process. I've only been seeing Oliver for a few months.”

“You're right,” he conceded. He laced his fingers together on the table in front of him. “And I'm trying to be patient. But I love my son. It's the reason I've tried to overlook, even defend, his behavior. At least until now. He's getting mixed up in a lifestyle that could destroy him.”

“Talk to him,” Rain urged. “Without accusations or judgment. You're his father and it's important you keep a line of communication open.”

“The last thing he wants is to talk to me.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand. “Just let him know you're there if he needs you.”

“Yes, I'll try.”

Her eyes shifted to the patio's entrance. The maître d' was leading Alex toward their table. He waved at her with an apologetic grin on his face. Dr. Carteris pushed his chair back and stood.

“I see your guest has arrived, and I've taken enough of your time. Thank you. I'd be grateful if you'd forward me information on the treatment programs.”

“Of course. Whatever I can do to help.”

He gave a cordial greeting to Alex as they passed one another.

“Look what happens,” Alex teased as he slipped into the chair. “I'm a few minutes late, and you're picking up men in the middle of the afternoon.”

“He's the father of one of my patients.”

“He wasn't wearing a wedding ring.” He unfolded his napkin with a flourish. “And I thought you only had eyes for Trevor Rivette.”

Rain felt color rise in her face, which only made Alex's grin broaden. “Oh, my. You
do
like Brian's brother, don't you?”

She managed a small laugh, although she evaded his stare. “We're not in grade school, Alex. What should I do, pass him a note?”

“That depends on what the note says,” he replied wickedly, then glanced at Rain's beverage. “Please tell me that's a Long Island.”

“Sorry. Just regular iced tea. I have another patient session in a few hours and the radio show tonight.”

“Spoilsport.” With an exasperated sigh, Alex signaled the waiter.

 

Thoughts about Oliver continued to plague Rain after she'd left the restaurant and taken the St. Charles Streetcar to its
stop near her home. The marijuana Dr. Carteris had found was hardly a surprise to her, although she was taken aback by the crystal meth. Oliver's drug use was more hardcore than she had suspected.

His next therapy session was scheduled for the following morning. Rain wondered whether he'd show up after his outburst the previous week. If he missed an appointment, she'd have no choice but to report his absence to the courts. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that, since Oliver would view the action as a betrayal. Trust was key to her relationships with her patients—with anyone in her life, Rain realized. Once that trust was broken it was nearly impossible to regain. Which brought her thoughts to David. They'd had no communication since she'd told him of her intention not to renew her contract, but she'd have to face him at the radio station that night. Rain considered this inevitability as she climbed the steps onto the veranda of her house. She nodded politely to the officers who sat in the squad car across the street, their presence becoming as certain as the humid New Orleans climate.

Her cell phone began ringing while she entered her pass code into the security system. She retrieved it from her purse and answered it.

“You were talking to him.”

“Oliver?”

“I
saw
you. You were touching him.”

Rain felt a tingle of nerves. He must have been spying on them from somewhere in the restaurant.

“It's not what you think. We ran into each other by accident,” she stated calmly. When he said nothing, she added, “I didn't tell him anything about our sessions. I only listened to what he had to say. He's very concerned about you.”

She ignored his bitter curse, her desire to reach out to him overcoming any trepidation she felt. “I'm at my house, Oliver.
Do you need to talk? I have another appointment scheduled this afternoon, but I'll cancel it if you want to come over.”

For a few moments, she could hear his breathing, harsh and tinny sounding through the phone. Rain ran her hand through her hair, her nape damp from the time spent outdoors. She tried to think of what else she could say to convince him.

“I didn't break our therapist-patient confidence. I need for you to believe that—”

Rain exhaled as the phone went dead. Oliver was gone.

T
he door to David's office at the radio station was closed. Rain passed it quietly, grateful for the temporary reprieve. Oliver's accusatory phone call that afternoon had left her drained, a feeling that had only increased as daylight faded into evening and she prepared herself to deal with another live show.

She slipped into the small studio and kept her mind occupied with selecting the recorded voice tracks that would be used between the live advice segments. A few minutes later, however, it wasn't David but Trevor who knocked on the door. Rain removed her headset as he came inside.

He laid the morgue photo on the console in front of her. “We got an ID this morning. The victim's name is Rebecca Belknap.”

Rain's mouth went dry as she studied the photo of the dead girl again, mentally changing the hair color from siren red to honey blond.
My God.
The image fused with her faint recollection of the girl who'd sat in her office months earlier. Becca Belknap had made it to only two sessions before switching to a different therapist. She'd had an eating disorder. The girl's pale skin in the photo stretched tightly across her cheekbones. She looked as though she'd lost another ten
to fifteen pounds off her already thin frame in the time since Rain had seen her.

“She was one of your patients?”

Still looking at the photo, Rain tugged at her lower lip. “I can't believe I didn't recognize her. She looks…different…”

“Different how?”

“She had blond hair before. She's thinner, too.” Reflectively, she touched the delicate bridge of her own nose. “I think she might've had some cosmetic surgery. I'm pretty sure there was a bump right here before.”

Although he remained silent, Trevor studied her. Rain pressed a hand against her stomach as she rose from the chair. “You think I knew who this girl was and didn't tell you?”

“I didn't say that.”

Moving away from him, she stopped in front of a cork message board on the studio wall. Rain stared at the random photos tucked between the station's daypart schedule and office memos. What kind of therapist didn't know her own patient?

Walking up behind her, Trevor clasped her shoulders. His touch caused her to release the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

“People can look different in death,” he offered. “Along with the physical changes in her appearance…”

She turned to face him. “I should have known. She was my patient—”

“A while ago. You see a lot of kids. It happens, Rain. Don't be so hard on yourself.”

“You don't understand. They're not just numbers to me.” Her voice trembled. She'd expected awkwardness after their kiss last night, but she hadn't dreamed of being faced with
what he'd thrown at her. The now-recognizable face of Becca Belknap seared itself onto her brain.

“I need you to focus, Rain. What do you remember about Rebecca?”

Her memories of those two brief sessions were like an out-of-focus slide show. Rain closed her eyes and tried to concentrate.

“She was referred to me by a general physician. She had symptoms of anorexia-bulimia, which would explain the weight loss since the last time I saw her. Especially if she failed to get treatment after she left my care or if it was unsuccessful.”

“Anything else?”

She shook her head. It had been so long ago. Without consulting her notes, it was difficult to recall anything beyond the bare facts. “You think her being my patient means something, don't you?”

Trevor didn't answer. Instead, he regarded her thoughtfully before speaking again. “Do your patients ever come into contact with one another? Maybe while one is leaving a session and another is coming into your home?”

“I try to schedule buffer time between appointments so that doesn't happen.”

“But it's possible?”

“Maybe,” Rain acknowledged.

“What about group therapy?”

“I do pro bono group counseling through the Louisiana Department of Social Services one afternoon a week. But Becca Belknap was a private patient. She came to my house.”

She'd been expecting Trevor's next words, but they still jarred.

“I need access to the files of any male patients you were seeing in the same time frame as the victim.”

“I can't do that.”

Trevor dragged a hand through his hair. He looked as tired as she felt. “Even if you're protecting a killer?”

Rain tried to squelch the uneasy feeling in her stomach. “As you know, I specialize in adolescents and young adults. My male patients are all in their teens or early twenties. No one even comes close to matching your profile of the killer. Dante isn't a kid, Trevor. You've heard him on the phone. Even if he's using a voice synthesizer—”

“I still have to eliminate any possibilities, even the remote ones.”

She met his gaze. “I can't give you my files. And you don't have probable cause for a warrant. You're simply trying to cover all your bases.”

“I'm
trying
to do my job.” He massaged his eyelids tiredly with his fingertips and sighed. “I'm sorry. I've been talking to the victim's friends since late afternoon. They all seem pretty harmless.”

Rain moved closer to him. “What do you really think this is about, Trevor? Why Becca Belknap? There are a half-dozen girls I'm counseling right now. Why not pick someone…”

Her words died as Trevor's hands slid through her hair. The sensation sent little jolts of awareness along her skin. “
This
is the connection,” he murmured. The certainty she saw in his eyes made her heartbeat quicken. “Dante picked this girl because she was a redhead, Rain. The fact she knew you was just another bonus. He's escalating, and he's looking for ways to get closer to you.”

She blinked as a knot settled in her throat. “That's your gut instinct speaking again, isn't it? You're saying you think Becca Belknap is dead because she was some sort of substitute for
me?
” She backed away. “I won't accept that.”

“Rain.” Trevor caught her arms and drew her closer. “Try to stay calm. You may still have to face Dante on the air tonight.”

She attempted to laugh, but it ended on a note of hysteria. Her body hummed with nerves and exhaustion. All she wanted to do was go home, take a hot bath, have a glass of wine and fall into a mindless sleep. Too tired to fight, she pressed her hands over her face and leaned against his chest.

“It's okay,” Trevor said. “We'll get through this. I'm right here with you.”

“I have the playlist.” Rain looked up to see David in the doorway. Dividing a hard stare between the two of them, he laid the document on the table and went back down the hall.

 

At 1 a.m., Rain signed off with her listeners. Her eyes met Trevor's through the glass window. Frustration was visible on his features as he stood and reached one hand behind his neck to massage the muscles there. She felt as tense as a coiled spring herself after spending the last three hours in nerve-racking anticipation of a phone call that never came.

David was in the production room with Trevor. She'd been cognizant of his unbroken gaze despite the few terse words he'd said to her all evening. He sat with his elbows on the control board and his fingers templed pensively in front of his face as he regarded her with cool eyes. He raised one hand and motioned for her to join them. Feeling as though she'd been summoned by the executioner, Rain stood and walked to him.

“You were off tonight,” he remarked. He adjusted a dial on the board as he spoke. “About as witty as cardboard.”

“That's a matter of opinion.”

“I'm your producer.
My
opinion's the one that matters.” The superiority in his tone left a stinging silence in the air. Rain lifted her chin, knowing his annoyance had more to do with what he'd witnessed earlier than it did with her performance.
She waited for his next jab as he fished a silver Mont Blanc fountain pen from his shirt pocket and began turning it absently in his fingers.

“You came off like an amateur. Ella could have done a better job tonight.”

“Then let her,” Rain replied evenly. “I'm sure she'd love a break from getting your coffee and manning the reception desk.”

He glared at her. “Ella isn't under legal contract. You are.”

A contract that was about to expire.
Not wanting to give more fuel to David's ire, Rain kept the thought to herself. She glanced over at Trevor. So far, he'd remained silent, but she'd recognized the subtle change in his posture as David continued raking her over the coals. Rain silently willed him to stay out of it, but David seemed intent on drawing him into the fray.

“Looks like your killer stood us up tonight, Agent Rivette.” He swiveled the leather executive chair in Trevor's direction. “Maybe he was as bored with the show as the rest of New Orleans.”

“He'll call again.”

“And when do you think that might be?”

“Give it time.”

David let out a laugh. “At the expense of my ratings? I have news for you. If this little surveillance project continues to be a distraction to the talent, I'm going to have to end it.”

Trevor crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his stance, although his tone remained casual. “So far your participation has been voluntary, but it doesn't have to be.”

“Meaning?”

“I can be here by invitation or by writ. And you can be charged with interference with a federal investigation if you cause problems.”

A flush crept up from David's collar. He'd begun tapping the pen on the console, the rapid staccato a giveaway to his growing fury. The pen gave a sharp crack as he threw it down and pushed away from the board.

He pointed a finger at Trevor. “Fuck you.”

David stalked from the room. A few seconds later, the door to his office slammed shut with a force that vibrated the studio's glass panels. Rain went to the doorway and looked out into the hallway. But all she saw was Ella, sitting at the reception desk with a smug expression on her face.

Rain turned back around. The expensive pen now lay under the control board, its broken casing bleeding indigo ink onto the oat-colored carpet.

“That went well, don't you think?” Trevor smiled faintly, but his eyes told her he was feeling anything but playful.